Broken Like An Angel
by mr. eames
Summary: Nightmares of Checkov haunt Murphy in the prison cell, with only Connor to comfort him. Warning: Twincest. Oneshot.


**Broken Like An Angel**

**A/N**: I'll admit to being a lover of anything Connor/Murphy. _Twincest_. You have been warned. Don't bother flaming.  
**Rating**: Really this should be rated M, but I can't be bothered, since it's not that bad. Sue me. :)  
**Disclaimer**: So you can't actually sue me, I don't own the movie or any of the characters, though I'm willing to pay Duffy for Conn and Murph.  
**Title**: Inspired by Broken Like An Angel by Crossfade. Really only serves as a theme, nothing near a song-fic.

Horrified by what he was seeing, Murphy couldn't help but yell out. "Stop it, please…stop!" But he didn't stop. Wasn't this a dismal sight? If anyone had been watching they would have seen a grown man, hunched over on the ground, his arms wrapped around his stomach, eyes wide with fear. Red face, and voice hoarse from screaming. Yet no one did walk by, no one was watching, except for them. The goddamn Russian, what was his name? Checkov, that mad fucker from the Russian Crime Syndicate. Wasn't he dead? For the first time, Murphy's mind registered this fact, an for a minute he found himself contemplating this.

It didn't make any sense in his mind. Simply put, if Checkov was dead, how could he be holding that knife to Connor's neck? His twin didn't look frightened at all, surprising enough. Every time Murphy would say a word, his brother would shake his head. Something was keeping Connor's hands behind his back, and Checkov had forced him to his knees, sneering at Murphy in a viscous way that only served to intensify the young man's anger.

Why was he staying there though? A good one hundred feet from Connor and Checkov, he could easily reach them in a few seconds, get the knife away from the Russian and slit his throat. Save his brother, save the world. Hell, he could be fucking Superman for the day if he could just move. However, he was glued to his spot. Literally. There was no way for him to move. Some unknown force had Murphy stuck to the ground, and all he could do was watch as Checkov brought the knife to Connor's throat, and then, with a flourish, slashed across his neck.

"Stop!" Murphy MacManus shot up in bed, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his hair and down onto his face. On instinct he looked to the right and saw Connor, sprawled across the bed, looking peaceful as he slept. Some might have said angelic, but Murphy knew his twin better than to use such a word. One of Connor's hands was curled around something, and Murphy's own curious mind couldn't keep him away from seeing what his brother held.

Somehow he managed to move stealthily to the bedside of his twin, and then he proceeded to lightly touch Connor's hand. This elicited a small sleeping noise from Connor, and his hand opened slightly but still enough to let the object fall to the ground. Murphy scrambled to grab the item and held it up. It was Connor's cross, curiously enough, for whatever reason it wasn't hanging on the wall. Startled, Murphy looked to his left and was shocked to see bars in the place of a front door.

Memories flooded his mind as he stared at the cylindrical, metal poles that kept them in. The memories told him that they didn't. Checkov, the Russian, was dead, of course, but that dream had felt dreadfully real. Murphy realized his own cross was hanging around his neck, and he took it in his right hand, placing it to his lips as he thought. Avoiding the press, that's what they had been doing. After all, what the two brothers had done was hardly for publicity. Those two Russians had been evil men. What other reason was needed to justify their killing?

"What are ye doin'?" Connor's voice alarmed Murphy and he looked up to see his brother's eyes on him. Both of them locked eyes and Murphy immediately looked away. Either one of them could pull that trick. They might be able to mask their emotions but neither could hide something from one another in their eyes.

Honesty worked out better in the end for both of them. Murphy had to struggle to think for a time he had ever lied to Connor, and he could think of hours without coming up with one instance of an actual lie. "I had a nightmare," he relinquished. "Woke up, and I don't know Conn, I saw the cross in yer hand and was wonderin' why it wasn't on the wall. For some reason I forgot we were here."

The look in Connor's eyes when he hears this. It's a look of Murphy doesn't know what. Pity was a possibility. But he suspected it was a mixture of understanding and regret. They both know he saved his life that day. Checkov would have shot Murphy if Connor hadn't burst onto the scene out of nowhere. Murphy would be dead, it would be him the police would be puzzling over. Still he can't help but to wonder. Why did the Russians take him and leave Connor up there? Were they going to come back later and kill him too?

What was their reasoning, and does it even matter now? There's no reason to worry, but that dream scares him more than anything. For whatever reason he's not afraid to die, but the thought of his brother, the only person he really has…the thought of him dying is more than Murphy can handle. "A nightmare abou' what, Murph?" Connor said, a look of concern on his face. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, sleepily, and Murphy stood up, then sat next to him on the bed.

"It was Checkov, that fuckin' fatass Russian," Murphy replied, his voice full of contempt. "I'm pretty sure he killed ye. He slit yer throat at the end." Even he heard his voice crack. He couldn't help the thoughts of his nightmare from seeping into his mind. Murphy's arm found its way around Connor's shoulders. He had a desperate need to prove to himself that this is not a dream; that this is real.

Connor relaxed, leaning onto Murphy, his head resting on his brother's chest. "That fat fuck's dead, alright? I have a feeling there won' be any instances of him killing me anytime soon," he said, in a humorous tone, looking up at Murphy. Instantly he saw that his twin wasn't amused by this statement, in fact he looked rather worriedly back at him. "Oi, Murph, really don' worry your pretty little head abou' it. I'm right here; I'm not going anywhere, promise."

"He could have killed me, you know," Murphy said, suddenly, staring off into space. He wasn't sure, even to this day, why he thought of this. Regardless, the thought had been in his mind ever since the fateful events of St. Patrick's Day. Or had it been the day after? Murphy was losing his grasp on time. Near death experiences could do that to you, after all. "If it hadn't been for you…I'd be fuckin' dead."

Silence took over the jail cell. Murphy wasn't sure what to say, and for a moment he was scared of what Connor was going to say. Not thinking, he leaned down and kissed the top of his brother's head, and pulled him closer. "Oof, Murph, are ye trying to choke me now?" Connor joked, "Oh, I was only kidding," he said, as Murphy let out a grunt and stood from the bed, leaving Connor to fall back onto the bed. "Gettin' angry on me now?"

Murphy didn't say anything in response to Connor's question. Instead he retreated to his own bed and laid down, keeping his eyes on the bar's of the jail cell. Then the silence was completed. Neither one of the brothers could find themselves able to sleep. Connor tried to fill up the silence. "Didn' mean a thing by it, ye know that righ' Murph? S'only a joke, really." Still nothing. "Augh, am I going to have to talk to myself all nigh' then?"

"Looks like it, Conn," Murphy replied, swiftly. He let a smile decorate his face, happy to know that Connor couldn't see it. For some reason he liked to tease his twin like this.

"What are you, a fuckin' sadist?" Connor complained. "Y'know I can't stand this damned silence." Once more Murphy didn't reply and he smiled to himself, closing his eyes. "It's much too cold in here, inn't, Murph?" That brought a response, a non-committal noise from Murphy's mouth. "Mind sharin' beds then?"

Obviously Murphy's consent was not needed in this matter, as mere seconds after Connor spoke he had fallen next to his brother. Annoyance pierced into Murphy's mind, and he turned to see his twin smiling at him, and felt the annoyance drain out of him quickly. Fuck, if his brother didn't look cute laying right there, he looked as innocent as an angel. Angelic. There was that word again. He said as much. "You look like a fuckin' angel, Conn. Real attractive."

"I already knew that, but thank you for the compliment," Connor answered.

"Didn' say it was a compliment, that's how you took it," Murphy said gruffly. After that, there were a few minutes of silence, and then Murphy fell into a light, fitful sleep. This time it was him.

"Your brother can't save you now." Checkov's breath was hot on Murphy's neck, and his saliva spattered down on his right shoulder. Though he tried valiantly not to, Murphy winced and flinched away from the Russian and towards to knife. The metal was white-hot, a sudden knick to his neck, and a few drops of blood fell onto the ground in front of him. Murphy was panting, near blubbering, and Checkov laughed, simply laughed at him. "Your brother doesn't even care."

Breathing heavily, Murphy went to look at him, but instead Checkov took the end of his knife and placed it under Murphy's chin, forcing him to look forward and see Connor, standing about one hundred feet away. Silent. There was no emotion on his brother's face, only an icy cold expression that was impossible to read because there was nothing there to understand. "Conn!" Murphy yelled, "You've got to help me. Please help me, please stop him." Pathetic, weak, dismal, wretched, all these words enter Murphy's mind as he fought to keep even a shred of dignity at his lowest moment. "Please, Connor, please."

"Murphy, s'all right, s'all right, brother, wake up." Teary eyes tentatively opened, to a world that was worth fighting for. Connor's arms were around his brother, and Murphy found that he was crying here too, his face buried in Connor's chest. "You were talkin' out loud. Right scary, it was. I'm here now, aye, told you I wasn't going to leave. I promised."

Choking back sobs that Murphy had found he couldn't control, he managed to speak quietly. "It was…he was tryin' to kill me, and ye were just standin' there Conn, not helping or anythin'. Ye were just stand…standin' there. Why didn' you help me?" Murphy knew the words made no sense, that all he was talking about was a dream, and nothing more, but he couldn't help the words that escaped from his mind and became spoken into the air.

"Shush, shush," was all Connor said for a bit. They lay there as Murphy wept. All he could think about was the look on his brother's face when he had asked for help. Understanding it now, he took the look as complete uncaring for whether or not the Russian killed him. Of course this was nowhere near the truth, but the intensity of the nightmare had left Murphy feeling that it was a possibility. "I will always help ye. You hear that, Murph? Nothin' but a nightmare, tha's all. Ye know I would never do that, don' ye?" Connor's voice came, sounding strained.

All Murphy could do was nod, because he knew very well what Connor said was true. "Ye seem to be holding onto me a bit tight, Conn," he said, chuckling through the small amount of tears that refused to go away. A smile managed to show on his face. Connor didn't speak, but Murphy felt him loosen his grip slightly. As he was about to protest this, his brother kissed him on his forehead, a lingering sort of kiss, longer than usual.

"Well, Murph, it seems ye are crying a bit too much over your brother, aren' ye?" Connor whispered, his words dangerously near silent. Murph was struck silent by the force of these words. It happened all too quickly, the meeting of Connor's lips to his. Soft at first, stopping the tears that flowed from Murphy's eyes. They worked as one person, in synch. It was amazing the way they could do such a forbidden thing in such a perfect way. Murphy was never able to remember whose shirt had come off first, but then again, that was a minor detail when you were snogging it with your twin.

The fact was, Murphy was fairly certain this was supposed to feel stirringly wrong, or something of the like, and he was supposed to vehemently not care and do it anyway. In all reality this felt perfectly normal, like something he was supposed to do, and it didn't bother him in the least. Now, he couldn't speak for his brother, but he had the idea that Connor was thinking something along the same lines. The jail cell had felt cold just moments before, but now the twin's were working up a sweat. It was far from silent, but no words were being spoken. Instead Connor was moaning as Murphy's kissing found it's way down his neck and then to his chest.

"Oh, Murph," Connor said, in a low, breathy voice. "What the fuck are ye doin'?" This could be taken as a statement to stop, but that's not what it was. Murphy didn't answer as reached down to unbutton his brother's pants, and then stripped them off, all in one clean motion. Connor was still wearing the navy boxers he had been wearing when they got to the police station, there were still stains of blood on the left side. It was slightly disturbing, but then, wasn't the whole situation in anyone else's eyes? The twin's eyes met for a faltering second, and Murphy saw all he needed to see. The boxers were thrown to the floor along with Murphy's own pants and undergarments.

There went any hope of it being cold that morning in Boston. Murphy whispered in his twin's ear as he thrust himself inside him. Connor, below him, cried out in the most wonderful way. At such an early time in the morning, in the secluded cell, they weren't disturbed and they certainly weren't bothering anyone else. The actions in the cell were perfectly in accord. From time to time Murphy would kiss the back of Connor's neck and educe whimpers from his twin, a sound he had never heard before. Of course, he was hearing a lot of sounds he had never heard from Connor before. For a second he even thought Connor was whispering a prayer, but that had only turned out to be a blatant repetition of 'God's' and 'Christ's.' No prayers needed now.

After all, Murphy had to admit, Connor really was an angel.

**A/N**: Apparently the Irish accent is more obvious to people who aren't around it all the time. I had a hard time changing the speech to sound like Conn and Murph exactly, since they sound downright normal to me. Anyway, this is my first attempt at not only BDS, but also at a more mature theme. So don't hate on me. :) I kind of got to the point where I was like 'Should I really?' and then was just like 'Fuck it' and did. Also, I'd like to thank _A Hotter Kiss A Better Touch_ for a real push to write this story. You wouldn't be reading it if she hadn't talked to me. Reviews make me smile, always.  
**Edited**: Because dyslexia never takes a day off.


End file.
